


Walls Come Tumbling

by Destina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-24
Updated: 2009-03-24
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam was stupid last time, when Uriel snatched Dean away without warning. Stupid, and unprepared. He won't make that mistake again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walls Come Tumbling

**Author's Note:**

> 4x16 coda, originally posted to LJ in March 2009. I really couldn't stand the Sam/Dean separation dynamic anymore, because it’s breaking my heart, so I had to make it better. Thanks to luzdeestrellas for beta and for generally being awesome, and to Killa, just because.

Sam sits beside the bed, waiting, the same as he's waited to see if Dean would live or die so many times before. He refuses the food kind nurses try to sneak in for him and gulps down cups of coffee instead, watching Dean. Always watching, always ready. 

Alastair is dead, for which Sam allows himself more than a moment of vicious satisfaction. If he had it to do over again, he'd do it slowly, and not bother wasting his energy on extracting information. He owes the angels nothing. The reality is, the demons aren't the real danger, anymore. Not to Dean, and certainly not to Sam. 

There's a moment, after Castiel dares to show his face outside Dean's room, that Sam considers killing Dean's pet angel. Or giving it a try, anyway. He might be strong enough, now; there's no telling what he can do to an angel, if he stays focused. But it wouldn't solve anything, because there is an army out there somewhere, who knows how many angels, and they all want to tear off their personal piece of Dean. 

Now, though, they'll have to get past Sam. 

He was stupid last time, when Uriel snatched Dean away without warning. Stupid, and unprepared. He won't make that mistake again. 

The sweet protective thrill he feels toward Dean is new, and it's dangerous. It's addictive. No wonder Dean has spent his whole life indulging his own brand of it with Sam. It takes everything Sam has not to unhook the tubes and carry Dean to the car. He could drive until the Impala gives out, find some hole in the wall place and cover Dean with his body while Dean recovers. He wants to hide Dean from the things that frighten and harm; he wants a place to be safe, warm, at peace. 

But he's not that Sam, anymore. 

Instead he kills the threat, methodically, dispassionately, without remorse or pity, and he saves his brother any way he can, because there's nothing he wouldn't do for Dean. 

That's who Sam has become. He's the man Dean needed, before, when he was dying by degrees on his way to hell and Sam wasn't prepared to do what had to be done. He's the Sam his brother can never really love, or accept. The one Dean will never thank. The one he might even hate, when all is said and done. But Sam's okay with it; there are truths about himself he can live with, and this is one of them. Dean will never know. Dean will live, and Dean will be himself again, and this is how it's going to be. 

Sam's been building the wall between them, brick by brick, since the day Dean returned from hell with his knowing looks and his condemnation and his refusal to understand what needs to be done. He reinforces it with calm and sadness and desperation, and when Dean stands beside him and pretends it's all okay, Sam pretends this new distance between them isn't there, for both their sakes. 

But he knows better, now, and this can't be allowed to continue. 

**

Dean's weak, when he wakes. Weak, and fragile, things Sam never for a moment thought would apply to his older brother. The knot in the pit of his stomach is growing, churning until Sam can't think of anything but what would happen now if he lost Dean again. All the wasted time, all the unnecessary sacrifice. Fuck the angels; Dean is his own man, but if he can't protect himself, Sam will take care of it. 

He goes to the hotel to pack their stuff; he can't afford to waste any time getting them the hell out of there. He takes a moment to shower, and he puts seven holes in the drywall where his fist goes through, over and over, the anger and fear pouring out of him so it can't damage Dean. It's not Dean's fault that the tables have turned, that they had to turn. Sam can be stronger, now. He has to be. 

"Sammy," Dean says, when Sam half-lifts him out of the bed and begins dressing him one item at a time. He's shaking with the effort of staying on his feet, so Sam pulls him closer. "Where we goin'?"

"Away from here," Sam says, a dozen lies on the tip of his tongue to deflect questions about the place Ruby found and the magic she scattered throughout its walls, protections meant to allow Sam to sleep at night without fear for Dean. But Dean doesn't ask any more questions. Instead he leans into Sam and allows himself to be helped without complaint, and that scares Sam more than anything. 

They drive and drive, Sam at the wheel. When they stop, they are in Port Collins, Oregon, near steep cliffs where the fog creeps up over the edges and slips into everything, dense and grey. Sam goes straight to the empty vacation home Ruby has cleared and readied. He puts Dean to bed in a downstairs bedroom and Dean sleeps under a pile of comforters next to Sam, on and on for two days straight. Every time he wakes, Sam is right there, no further away than the reach of Dean's hand. Even the wary expression on Dean's face doesn't bother him, and soon enough, it eases, moves from irritation to open worry to resignation, and that's when Sam knows Dean has had enough, too. 

There might have been a tipping point somewhere along the line, some moment Sam could point to and say, this was the time when his love for Dean became stronger than self-preservation or revenge. But if that moment existed, it was so long ago, it's immaterial now. 

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Dean says on the third day, then turns his back, wobbling just a bit as Sam watches him strip down gingerly for the shower, but there's no real annoyance behind the snarking. Sam can tell. He knows Dean isn't running away any more, either. There's just no point. Besides, Dean's fine, he's good; he gets through the shower on his own, and he drinks five beers and bitches about the TV reception. Then he puts down two cheeseburgers and his fries plus Sam's. He steals one of Sam's T-shirts to wear to bed and falls asleep sprawled diagonally on the bed, the TV remote held loosely in his curled fingers as he wheezes through his broken nose. 

Dean's nose has been broken six times, two of those before Sam was old enough to set it. Sam remembers. He remembers everything, all the gashes and wounds Dean hid from him, all the stricken expressions he thought Sam didn't notice. All those years of Dean in front and Sam behind. All the breaks and scars and gaps and cracks in Dean, all the times Sam failed to seam them back together-through selfishness or blindness, it doesn't matter now. 

Sam sits on the edge of the bed in the dark, tracing his tattoo with shaking fingers. It was so simple, back when they decided to have the designs placed on their bodies. Like whistling in the dark, like a picket fence in the way of a dinosaur: simple magic, meant to give peace of mind as much as protection. 

Now the ink is a barrier against what's inside him. He wonders if the demon blood is trapped in there, unable to break out; if he cuts his wrists, opens a vein, if the blood can pass the magic by. If his blood stutters in fear when it passes through his heart. 

Dean's breathing is even and slow. Alive, real. One more day, bought with luck, not skill. One more chance. Sam listens to Dean's breath, and catches his own as it hitches in his chest. 

**

Two weeks in, Dean simply stops pretending he doesn't want Sam's attention, maybe because Sam just won't stop giving it. When Sam rolls over in the early morning and watches Dean strip down, Dean doesn't turn his back. He peels off his clothing slowly, lets the fading bruises across his chest, his arms, his back, be clearly seen. No hiding. He waits until Sam's roaming gaze comes back to his face, and there are flickers of need and desire in his eyes, things he doesn't bother to shutter or lock away from Sam anymore. 

Sam rolls off the bed and goes to him, doesn't ask, doesn't hesitate, just puts his hands on Dean's body and runs them across the sore, aching places as Dean closes his eyes. He strips off his own shirt and his boxers, leans down to trace Dean's tattoo with his tongue, and Dean's sharp hiss of breath makes Sam shiver. He moves Dean's hand, presses it against his chest where his own tattoo rests, and shivers again when Dean's nails scratch across his skin, gently, as if he wants beneath the skin, as if he knows there are secrets written there. 

When he takes Dean's mouth, Dean opens up for him, and Sam presses in slowly, taking as much from Dean as he'll allow, long, deep kisses that should feel wrong but instead, Sam only wants more. He waits for Dean to say no, but Dean's hand in the small of his back presses him in closer, and Sam gasps as his cock brushes Dean's, both of them so hard. Dean is muscle and angles and strength of will, so Sam lets the desperation fall away, lets Dean's desire burn it out of him. 

He tips them back onto the bed, breath coming fast and hard. Dean winces when his back hits the mattress, but he pulls Sam on top of him, eyes open, a glint of determination there. Sam knows; there was a time Sam thought Dean would weld them together, would make them one person, if he could. Sam could only think of running, then, of being free.

Now he can't imagine a life without Dean beside him. 

Sam pushes truths aside in the dark. Dean has slowed him down: truth. Dean is not the hunter he used to be: a second, harsher truth, but that's just another useless piece of information. Dean will move past this. He'll hunt with Sam again, but now, Sam needs this; he needs only this. 

When he takes Dean's cock into his mouth, Dean arches off the bed and slides his fingertips into Sam's hair, achingly gentle, as if he's afraid to touch. Sam closes his eyes and takes hold of Dean's hips, sucks Dean until Dean starts to make sounds, low and needy and full of pleasure. He grasps Dean's wrists, pulls them aside and pins them to the bed with his palms, then closes his fingers around them, holding Dean in place. 

"Sam," Dean says, and comes into Sam's mouth, head thrown back. Sam watches him, swallows, takes in the sight of Dean's bared throat, his parted lips. He surges up Dean's body to kiss him, and isn't surprised when Dean catches his shoulder and flips Sam onto his back, crouching over him. Dean's hands on him, the way Dean has always communicated, and now he's stroking Sam's cock, something half-wild in his expression. 

The moment Sam looks into Dean's eyes, he comes with his whole body, shuddering helplessly. Dean soothes him until he's spent, whispering hushed nonsense against his ear. 

After, Dean tries to move away, but Sam has had enough of it, and he reaches out his arm to fold Dean into his body. Not even token resistance; Dean curls against him, and they lie together, catching their breath, until Dean sinks into sleep. 

**

Dean has sixty-three freckles on his back. Sam has counted them a hundred times since the day he took Dean from the hospital. Verifying, maybe, or reassuring himself. Across the expanse of his brother's body, the landscape has changed. No more scars whitened and stretched with time; no more visible reminders of a life shared and understood between them. 

Sam draws his fingers gently through the spaces between the dots, splatters of paint on a canvas he should barely recognize, but which feels more familiar to him than his own skin. For good reason-the mirror shows him a face broader, more angular, but eyes he can't quite meet. 

Beneath his touch, Dean stirs. Sam presses his palm into the small of Dean's back, reassuring him into sleep again, or perhaps commanding it. He's not above it anymore, and they've both stopped pretending to believe Dean is in charge. The token lift of Dean's shoulders, the irritated shrug meant to tell Sam hey, no, big brother here-all those things only make Sam want him all the more. 

He leans down, presses a kiss between those raised shoulders and rakes his teeth subtly across Dean's skin, where the irregular swoop of six freckles curves like a smile. "Go back to sleep," he whispers. But Dean is ever contrary, and instead of sinking back down, he turns his head on the pillow so he can seek out Sam's face in the afternoon light. 

"Sam?" He says Sam's name, not like a question; more like an entire conversation. There is only one answer, so Sam gives it, lips pressed to the corner of Dean's mouth, once, twice, again, again, again, until Dean sighs into him. 

Old words are echoing in Sam's head. The hollow, wrecked sound of them like burns across memory: I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy. Dean's life isn't the only thing Sam has to save; this, too, needs fixing. Every time the sound of Dean's voice fills his mind, he reaches out to touch, to prove Dean wrong. 

Dean doesn't quite pull away, but he doesn't quite give in, either. They've managed to come this far without talking about it, like everything else in their lives, but maybe now they are closer to center, to each other. This, what they have, is all they have left, and Sam guards it fiercely, holds it close and gives it back to Dean with everything he has in him to give. There's just a moment's hesitation on Dean's part, and then he's tilting his face, turning on his side, so Sam can kiss him more deeply. 

The taste of Dean, the way his lips part wider when Sam rests his thumb at the hollow of Dean's throat, the deliberate way he reaches for Sam, moves and shapes his body to Sam's, there isn't any measure for the price Sam would pay to have it always. 

"Dean," he murmurs, running his hand down Dean's back, slow. He means to whisper a string of possessive promises, but he can't make the syllables form. Not when Dean is pulling, hauling Sam on top of him again, and Sam understands in an instinctual way. Protection. Shelter. Comfort. 

He braces himself on his elbows, one on each side of Dean's body, and lifts his head to kiss Dean again, more urgent this time, but still slow. He takes his time, making his way across the now familiar and yet still new softness of Dean's mouth. Somehow he's going to find the key, the way to make Dean understand, that even if everything else is gone, this remains. This thing Dean can't help but feel, and Sam is going to push as much of this feeling into those darkened spaces as he can. 

Dean shifts underneath him, legs sprawling open, his hands in Sam's hair not gentle anymore, but insistent, mutual possession. Sam loves Dean's strength, loves matching it with his own. He aligns his body with Dean's, presses his hips in, and watches with satisfaction as Dean's head falls back against the pillow and his eyes flutter closed. Sam presses again, then slips his hand beneath the pillow. 

It doesn't take much; Dean isn't willing to wait, and he signals impatience with his body. Sam gets a little lost in the sensation of being joined, with Dean's lips against his own every time Sam's fingers breach him. His heart twists in his chest, and a sound he doesn't mean to make slips out, a hitched breath caught on the edge of that feeling. 

"Now," Dean says, low, as if it's an answer to something Sam said. 

"You have to feel," Sam says. He's inside, now, one long slow thrust as he watches Dean's face to understand what it means. "For this, what we...you...have to..." He moves, hips circling, words lost again. _"Dean."_

Dean just kisses him, as if he has some idea of what Sam meant to say. Then they are moving together, Sam fucking him slow and deep, stopping on the brink what feels like a hundred times to kiss him, and then to go on when Dean arches impatient against him. The press of Dean's hands against Sam's shoulders, the low moans, Sam's cries, all blend together in a blur of need. 

Sam comes first, biting his way across Dean's shoulder, triumphant smile against Dean's skin when Dean twists against him, out of control. He wraps his hand around Dean's cock, his face inches away from Dean's, nowhere to hide. When Dean comes, he looks half-stricken, but there's so much more to the burst of emotion in his eyes, and Sam drinks it all in, won't let Dean turn his face away. 

Sam moves to the side and wipes his hands on the sheet. Dean's breathing evens out slowly, and he turns his head to look at Sam. For a long moment, they hold each others' steady gaze, and Sam wonders how much will be enough - if anything he can do will ever be enough to convince Dean. To hold him here. To keep him from the angels outside, and the demons inside. 

Dean turns on his side, his back to Sam, but a ripple of muscle and he presses against Sam, an invitation. Sam throws his arm over Dean, fits himself to his brother and feels Dean relax in his arms. He touches his lips to Dean's skin, again and again, soothing and soft.

He runs his fingertips across the mark Castiel left on Dean's shoulder. He'd erase it, if he could, replace it with his own mark, something less showy and guilt-inducing. "I won't let him have you," he says, realizing only after the words are out that he meant to say _them_ , to include all the angels and demons - that he meant to say _hurt_ , not _have_ \- but the slips are telling in their truths. Not that he has to worry about it anymore. By the end of this day, Dean will know everything he's been keeping back, and he's going to know everything in Dean's head, and in his heart. That's just how it's going to be. 

"You really think you can stop them?" Dean raises his head, and that resigned tone is back. It makes Sam see red. 

He kisses Dean again, a hundred promises of ending this mess in every kiss, and he fucking intends to hold up his end of that bargain. "I think _we_ can stop them," he says, and the light of hope in Dean's eyes is his sanction.


End file.
